The Other Side
by Mair Technosage
Summary: Companion fic to my other Sherlock story-told from John's POV. Spoilers for the end of season 2.


_This is a flip side to my other Sherlock fic told from John Watson's POV. Hope you like it. It's a bit longer than the other one._

* * *

"John, we need to talk."

John looked up from the patient file on his desk. Sarah stood in the doorway. Her hands were empty, so whatever the conversation was it didn't involve a patient. He gestured to the seat at his desk. He watched as Sarah closed the door behind her and walked over to the empty chair.

"How long has it been?"

He blinked. He closed the file and sat back in his chair. "How long?"

"Since Sherlock."

"Oh." John stared at Sarah. Sherlock was a touchy subject for them since they'd broken up, more so in recent months. "Why?"

"Just answer the question. How long has it been since Sherlock died?"

He felt that day again—struggling to stay on the phone and not run at the building with the precariously perched figure at the top, fighting to get to the figure he knew to be on the other side of the dump truck…he suppressed the feeling of needing to vomit—knowing now it was a lingering psychosomatic affect of not feeling a pulse beneath his fingers pressed against his friends wrist and seeing blood spreading across the pavement while dealing with his own concussion. He blinked the mental image from his mind and refocused on Sarah. "Two months."

"Wrong."

Memories flooded him as he heard Sherlock's voice echo the simple word—his inflection sounding bored and condescending.

"It's been five and a half months." Sarah's voice brought him back sharply into the present with it's concerned tones.

"Couldn't be."

"It has been. You were treated for your injuries at the hospital and released later that day, you took a week off but insisted on coming back to work as soon as possible. You aren't as bad as you were that first month, but you still aren't _here_. You haven't moved on. I haven't stopped checking your work because you made errors and continue to make errors. They aren't big ones, or life threatening, but it's like you don't want to be here any more and don't know how to quit, but you don't want to go home either."

John stared at his boss. He tried to remember the weeks she claimed it had been since Sherlock's demise. He tried to remember the mistakes. He tried to remember his last complete diagnosis that hadn't taken several visits.

"John." His eyes tracked back to Sarah—he didn't even realize he'd looked away. "John, you need help. Either you find a therapist to talk to or I find you one. I'm putting you off until you are able to make and keep appointments with the chosen therapist."

"But—"

"No. I still care about you, even if we both know it wouldn't work out now any more than it did a year ago. I will not let you work yourself to death or take risks with patients." Her gaze seemed to go straight through him. "Do you know someone you can call, or will I pick up the phone and call someone?"

The only person he could call was the therapist who'd initially treated him when he was discharged. The same person who couldn't do what Sherlock did in the preceding three months that Sherlock did in 24 hours. Maybe she'd be better with grief counseling. "I know someone."

"Call them."

"Now?"

"Now. And then you're going to leave for the day and not be back for any shifts in the immediate future."

"You're serious?"

Sarah stared. "You know, Dr. Phillips is a very good doctor. Helped me deal with the fallout from when I nearly got speared in a tunnel."

John picked up his cell phone and started flitting through the contacts for the last number he expected to call again.

* * *

It was a surreal experience talking with his old therapist again. He didn't want to be back in her office, back in those chairs designed for the illusion of comfort rather than actually being comfortable, but there he was and he found himself saying much more than he ever thought he would to her. He didn't even remember her taking any notes.

He knew she could see it though-see what he tried so hard to hide from everyone. She could see his love for his best friend. He shouldn't feel the way he did—like someone who lost a spouse. He still didn't know how she managed to convince him to go visit Sherlock's grave. It took two sessions, but he still didn't know how she managed it. He had to take Mrs. Hudson though—otherwise he never would have left the cab.

He felt as though they reached the grave too quickly. The grass was too green, the sky too gray, the light breeze not cold enough, the air too cheerfully absent of a misting rain. The headstone…too confirming of what he knew and didn't want to believe.

Mrs. Hudson went back to the car before he did. Words tumbled out of him in the absence of anyone but that hideous grave and himself. He dared himself to touch the headstone. The granite was cold beneath his finger tips and slick with condensation from the damp morning. Each tap of his fingers on the stone made it more real and his throat closed on him. He fought the tears that lurked as he remembered the pale gray blue eyes staring sightless as blood pooled at the side of his face on the pavement. He returned to hear himself say "…not be dead."

John shook himself mentally and let his arm drop to his side. Talking to a grave, pleading for an impossible miracle wasn't productive and he needed to stop it. He left the grave to follow the distant Mrs. Hudson to the waiting cab. He wouldn't be visiting again. Not unless Mrs. Hudson wanted to come. The miracle he needed wasn't going to happen and he really didn't need to be reminded of it.

* * *

It was an odd day. John fiddled with the pen and the edge of the medical file in front of him. He was no where closer to figuring out the most recent "check up" call from Mycroft as he was the one he received a month and a half ago. It was odd that after not talking to the man in roughly a year, received two telephone calls in just over as many months. Odder still was the fact that Mycroft had asked him if he'd seen Lestrade at all recently.

He stared at the edge of the file and realized that he'd managed to get pen on the label. He sighed and shoved the pen into the holder. He was getting nowhere with this patient file. He flipped the folder closed and blinked at the sight of a crumpled, smudged and stained envelope. His last charity patient must have left it.

He'd helped the members of Sherlock's homeless network when they were sick. The girl he'd treated, the one whose file now lay closed on his desk, had the beginnings of a cough. She was one of the smarter youngsters who would come in for help before she got sick enough that she'd have to be taken in. She also stayed clear of drugs, and some of the others weren't as quick. It was odd though, because this wasn't a time of year when her asthma would normally flare up.

He picked up the envelope and turned it over to see a roughly penciled note: "Was given this and told you might like it. Thanks for the help doc." He smiled and flipped open the envelope and a small piece of black plastic slid out. He blinked and turned the object over in his hand. It looked a bit like a box knife but he couldn't make out a way to extend a blade. His fingers ran over the surface and caught slightly on what appeared to be a crack of some sort.

John set the envelope down on the desk and looked closer. It almost looked like a cap of some sort. He carefully took hold of the smaller side and pulled. The end didn't come off, but it did slide. The protective covering slid back to reveal a small magnifying lens. On a whim he flipped his hand over to look at his palm through the lens. The lens, small though it may be, was quite good. It was an interesting little trinket, but a bit too small for him to use. He slowly closed it and put it down on the desk.

He got up from his desk and put the medical file away. The girl had been his last patient. He really should just go home. He looked back at his phone and the small magnifier. Sherlock probably would have liked the thing. Maybe he should take Mycroft's not-advice and catch up with Lestrade. He might even be able to handle that now.

Ten minutes later he was off to meet Lestrade at the Beehive.

* * *

"I always wondered how Moriarty managed to keep tabs on crimes." John said as he finished his pint.

"Everyone is under review though. Corruption of a section chief…me not realizing how stuff went missing…"

John looked over at the man fiddling with the bottom rim of his glass. "They're hardly going to put you on notice for that."

Lestrade shrugged and set his empty glass down. He grabbed a couple nuts from the bowl between them on the bar.

John got the bar tender's attention and signaled for another round. The two were quiet as they sat, the pub rather quiet without a match on. "Oh, got something today." He rummaged through his pockets, trying to remember where he put the thing. His fingers met plastic and he drew out the pocket magnifier. He offered it to Lestrade. "A patient gave this to me today. Thought I might like it but it's a bit small for use in the practice."

Lestrade looked over and blinked at the sight of the magnifier. He took it out of Johns hand and slowly opened it. "Looks like the one Sherlock had."

"Pardon?"

"You remember it don't you?"

"What? Sorry, no…"

"Sherlock used to have a pocket magnifier like this. Did you know it wasn't on him?"

"You mean to tell me that Sherlock had one like this? I thought he just had a pocket lens—one of those square plastic numbers."

Lestrade shook his head. "I saw him use this too often. He used it less when you were around. You'd see things that he wouldn't have to get a closer look at in order to confirm." John watched as Lestrade gave it a closer look. "This one has seen a lot of use. I'm surprised it hasn't been worn out."

"One of his old associates gave me this—one of the smart ones in his network. Are you telling me this might be his?"

Lestrade closed the pocket magnifier and held it out for John to take back. "Anything is possible." He nodded to the bar tender as a new beer was placed in front of him. "I think you should hold on to it. If it is his, then you're the best person to keep it. I have to deal with the big details rather than the forensics." He jiggled the magnifier in his fingers. "This is for seeing details."

John slowly took the magnifier back and tucked it inside his jacket in the breast pocket. His gaze locked on to the freshly pulled pint sitting on the bar in front of him. He was torn between wanting to down the thing in one go or leave it sitting there on the bar.

An elbow nudged his side. He looked over at Lestrade who was swallowing and lowering his glass. "There was a time when I thought that maybe…maybe Donavan was right. When I got dressed down I found myself wondering if it was all a hoax."

John reached for his pint and took a swig. Guilt and anger welled up inside. He squashed it down as he waited for Lestrade to continue. When he didn't, John took another swallow and set the glass back down on the damp bar mat. "What changed your mind?"

"Seeing you."

John stared at Lestrade.

"You didn't go to the funeral. I found out from Mycroft Holmes that Sherlock had been on the phone with you when he passed—that you saw him die." John reached for his beer as Lestrade continued. "When I went 'round to see how you were getting on afterwards you were disbelieving. You probably don't even remember the visit. You told me what he said. I thought about what Donavan said. I saw the experiments left forgotten on the table and that's when I knew. I knew that everything was wrong, Sherlock was dead and I didn't have a stitch of proof. Only thing I could do was try to get an ID for the body on the roof and a motive for the suicide. Couldn't even investigate the damn case because of my involvement."

His glass met the mat again, now half empty. He tossed a couple of notes on the bar. "I've got work in the morning. It was good to catch up."

Lestrade held out a hand. "Good to see you John."

John shook the offered hand and left as fast as his aching body could carry him.

* * *

The pocket magnifier sat next to his laptop. Not that he needed the reminder of his best friend when he checked his email—the laptop got stolen from him often enough by Sherlock. Still, it had become a touchstone of sorts. He waited as his email program opened. He saw a couple of alerts from his blog and smiled fondly. He was a bit surprised people still read the thing.

Then he noticed the date and stopped smiling. His fingers hovered over the first blog comment email, unsure if he really wanted to read it. He pushed himself back from his desk and went to the kitchen and made himself a tea. There were some things he just couldn't do without fortification. Breakfast should have been enough, but he needed more tea.

Tea made, mug in hand he trudged back to the computer. He took a sip. He sat down. He took another sip. He opened the email. He stared at the email. He re-read the email. The words didn't change. His eyes shifted back to the pocket magnifier he'd received those long eight months prior. He could feel the battered envelope under his fingers as though it was earlier that morning and remembered the words written in pencil;_ "Was given this and told you might like it. Thanks for the help doc."_ John's eyes tracked back to the three innocent words on his screen "One more miracle." His ears echoed with the memory of the intense baritone of Sherlock Holmes saying "Think, John, think!"

It couldn't be true. He'd asked for the miracle a year and a half ago. He'd been alone in a grave yard and those words hadn't passed his lips since. The girl didn't come back for her scheduled follow up visit with him about her cough. She was one of the more reliable pieces of Sherlock's homeless network. He was moving before he realized it.

His fingers grabbed the nearest pair of shoes and he cursed at them as he couldn't get his feet into the shoes fast enough. Deftly he tied the laces and lurched to his feet for his coat near the door. He didn't hear the rattle of his keys and he looked around, spotting his keys with his wallet and phone on the coffee table. He lunged for the items, shoved them into his pockets and ran for the door. He thundered down the stairs and out the front door. He looked about frantically for a taxi and yelled raising his hand and jumping as he spotted one down the way. As the cab pulled up, Mrs. Hudson came out the front door clutching her house coat about her and calling for him but he paid her no mind.

The taxi ride to the cemetery was a blur, he didn't even remember giving the direction to the driver. His eyes tracked the drive through the grounds and he halted the cab near Sherlock's grave. He tossed some money at the driver and opened the door.

He strode down toward Sherlock's grave—looking about carefully. He saw a wooded area near the burial site and went there first. Some old graves lined the other side of the tree's but some of the last trees were near enough to Sherlock's grave that someone could have listened. His eyes scanned the ground for foot prints in the dewy turf, but he couldn't see a thing. He looked around intently, looking for anyone—anything that would tell him anything about Sherlock. His eyes fell onto the grave stone and his footsteps slowed as he approached the grave. The only thing new was the small bit of moss clinging to the etched letters trying to grow on the granite.

His eyes closed and his head bowed. This was ridiculous. Sherlock was dead. He fell, received a traumatic head injury right in front of him and his pulse was already gone by the time he'd managed to get hold of his wrist. "God I'm crazy. I hate today and I miss you." John breathed as he opened his eyes. He stared at the unchanging headstone. I'm going to get rid of that comment on the blog. I don't know what the poster was playing at but it is not staying up there."

John turned away from the silent grave and looked back toward the taxi. The now gone taxi. "Damn it."

* * *

The soft squeak of the brakes brought his attention back from the misty weather outside the cab window. 221 B sat outside the door and John sighed, opening the cab door. He shut the back door and fished out his wallet. Cab paid, the wallet returned to his pocket in favor of his key's. He stepped up and unlocked the door. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him and looked toward Mrs. Hudson's flat. Her door was open, but he didn't hear anything from inside. He looked up and saw the door to his flat open. The smell of tea filled the air as he climbed the stairs to the flat, feeling the weight of the last two years with every step. He watched as the stairs flattened out on the landing.

"You're late," a familiar bored sounding baritone filled the air. John jerked like he'd been shot as his eyes scanned the room and locked onto the figure near the desk holding a violin and bow as though about to play. "You should have been back ten minutes ago—you must have had to flag down another cab from the main road. You should have told the cabby to wait."

John's disbelief at Sherlock standing in the room as though it were the most natural thing in the world grated across his nerves. Sherlock lowered the violin and tapped the bow lightly against his ankle. His eyes focused on the worn shoes as Sherlock continued to speak. "And speaking of telling people things—why didn't you tell Mrs. Hudson to hold on to my equipment? I'm going to have to collect it all again in order to restart my experiments. And what of my skull?"

John felt his urge to hit Sherlock rise with a sudden flush of anger and betrayal. Relief warred with guilt as he started to speak. "That's it? You…you've been gone…Dead for two years. You never contacted us to tell us otherwise and you swan in dickering about your bloody equipment being gone?!" Moriarty had been found dead roughly the same time Sherlock had been declared dead and given the powder burns it had to have been just before or just after Sherlock had jumped. Sherlock would have known the man was dead from Mycroft the following day. Why did he continue the charade? Why didn't he let him know? Why did he let him keep on believing he was dead? How could he do that?!

Sherlock had the grace to look away briefly. Probably trying to figure out if John was going to hit him. "Well, yes. It's expensive equipment. Besides—you could have talked to Mycroft about this months ago when I arranged to get the pocket magnifier to you." John's temper flared as he remembered Mycroft's call. "If you'd been paying any attention at all you would have realized that there were assassins posted around the flat, not just the ones after the code—fictional by the way, and that they had a purpose. You knew I wasn't suicidal, and you clearly didn't believe what I said, so why would you believe I committed suicide in the first place? Why not investigate after a few months when you noticed neighbors disappearing or being arrested? Did you not keep up with the news at all?"

John's hands clenched as he thought about the months after Sherlock's death—the fugue, the therapy, the effort required just to fight through the day.

Mrs. Hudson rose from his usual chair. "I'm going to let you boys hash this out. It's good to have you back Sherlock."

John blinked as he realized she'd been there the whole time as she walked out the door. He took a couple of steps toward Sherlock and stopped. He couldn't believe that he'd damn near had a mental break down because of the man just standing there across the room from him who was openly chastising him for not thinking. How was he supposed to investigate something when he couldn't bloody think of anything beyond his work and trying to function enough to keep himself going?

"You can hit me if you like, but be advised that it was for your own good." Sherlock put the violin down in the open case on the desk and placed the bow on top of it. He was probably preparing for John's lunge and right cross. "You'll probably feel guilty about it later. If I hadn't "died", if you hadn't believed it, if the witness assassin hadn't believed it—you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be dead. Moriarty killed himself so I couldn't use him to stop the assassins."

John's steps toward Sherlock stopped just outside of arm's reach. This idiot, this incredibly wonderful idiot had saved him, saved them, put them through hell missing him and let them believe that he was in that grave he'd just been to earlier in the day. "I'm not going to hit you, Sherlock." He studied the man in front of him. The royal blue dress shirt hung a bit looser on his lanky frame and the slacks were likely being held up by the belt on the tightest setting. His hair was longer, in need of cutting, but the eyes remained unchanged. The need to touch, to comfort, to care, to reassure that he was real and not a figment of his imagination was overwhelming.

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock around the chest. It was like coming home. He was warm, not cold like the last time. He could hear the heart beating beneath his ear, smell the scent of the man that hadn't been present in the flat for the last year. His fingers could feel the ribs through Sherlock's shirt and he knew he'd have to go back to pestering him about his eating habits—God how he missed that. He could feel Sherlock's arms wrap reflexively, then tightly around his shoulders. "Never do that to me again." He murmured into Sherlock's shoulder. "Thank you, but never again."

He heard the soft "Any time" near his ear. He didn't know how long he kept the grip on Sherlock, but he felt Sherlock's arms loosen. "John, lend me your phone."

John loosened his grip and looked up, puzzled. "What?"

"Now that I'm back I need to let Lestrade know that I'm available for cases again."

He stared. "You're joking… The papers—as far as the yard goes you're a fraud who led them around by the nose for years."

Sherlock gave him a haughty look. "Only the last year and seven months. Surely you don't think I wouldn't have cleared my name with them prior to returning, do you? Phone please."

John blinked. "Only the last—", his urge to strike the man encircled in his arms rose a little. "Sherlock! They knew?!"

"Of course not, that's why it took so long. They're idiots—especially Anderson. You should be pleased it only took eight and a half months and a ridiculous amount of data even they couldn't try to misconstrue to convince them. I even got Lestrade back into his chief's good graces. Phone?"

John debated hitting the man or walking out and decided it wasn't worth it. He really did miss this. He let go of Sherlock and rummaged through his pockets for his phone. He held it out to Sherlock who took the phone and walked toward the sofa. He watched as Sherlock's fingers danced over the keys on the phone. He'd missed that too. Sherlock turned, tossed the phone at him and flopped down onto the couch.

He caught his phone, opened it and scrolled for the newest sent message. He smiled as he read the message. It looked like they were in the clear and back in the game.

* * *

_Hope you liked and thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated!_


End file.
